


Sketchbook

by Detokaki



Series: Kaleidoscope [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Artist Tendou, Bullying, Crying Goshiki Tsutomu, Flashback, Fluff, Gen, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Protective Ushijima Wakatoshi, Team Bonding, Ushijima has synesthesia, Ushijima is SO intelligent but is not adept at expressing himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:53:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26655445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Detokaki/pseuds/Detokaki
Summary: Tendou Satori, colorfully enthusiastic towards every aspect of his life, hides a secret or two about his past from his friends. When one is brought to light by an unassuming teammate, he cracks.Ushijima Wakatoshi has never seen his best friend in such an agitated state. Whether or not Tendou is willing to let him in, Wakatoshi is determined to draw him back from the edge, making a few discoveries about himself along the way.
Relationships: Tendou Satori/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Series: Kaleidoscope [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2025494
Comments: 18
Kudos: 209





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE BE AWARE!!! There’s some pretty brutal bullying that occurs in this chapter :(
> 
> Read with caution.

“Ah, shi-!”

Satori caught himself just before he could finish the exclamation, bobbing his head low in embarrassment and craning his neck to see if any adults had caught his blunder. He didn’t know if any of the nearby shopkeepers would take personal offense at the curse, but his mother was strict, and he had learned the hard way that most grown-ups were more than happy to snitch to her about any observed misconduct on his part. Thankfully, the only other people around him were other elementary schoolers.

Potential crisis averted, Satori drew his focus back to the predicament at hand. He had thought his bright yellow backpack felt a little lighter than usual, and as it turned out, he was correct. A sketchbook, adorned with a colorful explosion of stickers and filled to the brim with drawings, was missing. _I must have left it in my desk,_ he grumbled to himself.

He hadn’t made it far along his route between school and his house before the realization, and so the trek back was certainly worth it. Satori couldn’t bear to be apart from the worn old thing, and during today’s math lesson, he had imagined a particularly enticing scenario he wanted to sketch out.

Every day, his mom had to come and take it away from him when she arrived home from work.

“Mom! Let me finish! Please, I don’t want to forget my idea!”

“Satori, sit down and do your homework. I’m sure you’ll pick right up where you left off, no problem. You always do… but _after_ your assignments.”

He stood rigid in the spot where he had dropped his bag to search for the sketchbook, head thrown back in exacerbation, chastising himself for forgetting it in the first place. Then he hoisted his backpack and took off in the direction he had come from. The time he had left with the precious thing was ticking away.

It was a parallel for his life, really, as his schedule became more and more busy as he grew older. School, volleyball, homework, chores… while some of those activities were decidedly more enjoyable than others, Satori’s fingers always twitched for a pencil, always ached to practice his craft.

After all, he was going to become a famous manga artist.

He had announced it at dinner a few months ago. The whole ordeal was a show, his proclivity for dramatics evident in the way he twirled about the dining table while his mother and father passed the salmon teriyaki between them.

“Satori, sit down and eat your dinner.”

“I can’t!”

“Satori,” his father had huffed as he leaned over and grabbed him by his arm mid-pose, leading him back to his seat and untouched food. “You need to eat, not run around, dancing all over the place. Let’s talk about your studies first. But once you finish everything on your plate… I wanna see your newest drawing.”

Satori had beamed at his parents, and tucked liberally into his dinner. 

The day his father had come home with a new set of inking pens was, in Satori’s opinion, a hundred times more wonderful than Christmas. It was second only to when his mother signed him up for Sunday afternoon illustration classes at a local youth center. While they still soundly ragged on him in regards to his other responsibilities, having his parents’ support his endeavors meant the world and more to the fledgling artist. 

\---

If he had to guess, Satori would say he made it back to the school in half the time it would take a normal person to walk the route. He didn’t slow his pace once on the grounds, desperately hoping that whatever students had been tasked with cleanup of the classroom were still there, or that at least the door was unlocked for some reason or other.

Had he paid better attention to whose names were on the whiteboard that day, Satori might have simply gone straight home. 

“What is that supposed to be?”

“I don’t know, but it’s ugly!”

“Hah! That’s ironic!” 

There were a few classmates who had it out for him, and Satori did not know why. It wasn’t because he had a knack for blocking their spikes during volleyball club, as they had treated him with spite far before they ever clashed on the court. It couldn’t be jealousy, either, as Satori only just matched their height, and his grades were admittedly nothing to marvel at. He was quite sure the ringleader of the little troupe was even the teacher’s favorite student, often awarded extra stickers throughout the school year. It was all quite senseless to him, so he did his best to stand tall and disregard their leering.

“Hey, that’s mine…”

Satori stood in the doorway of his classroom, feeling very much like time had stopped around him as his peers startled at his presence, his sketchbook open and vulnerable in front of them. He felt his heart rate pick up as they leaned over it, as though it was his own body they were threatening, as though it was his body trapped within their hostile proximity.

“What do you want, freak?”

“I - I just… that’s my sketchbook, can I have it back?”

Wringing his hands, he took a tentative step forward into the room. The two boys before him bristled. The taller of the two, hair a handsome jet black, yanked it up into the air, dangling it by its front cover. Its pages, tattooed front to back with futuristic robots, supernatural beasts, and dashing heroes flapped limply with the motion.

“Oh, this? This is just some trash we found.”

“Get lost, creeper!” 

“Please…”

“We have to finish cleaning, you’re slowing us down! Nobody wants you here.”

“Please, just give it back! I’ll leave, I swear!”

“If you want this garbage back, you’re gonna have to dig it out of the dumpster, _yokai!_ ”

The second boy, a stockier, paler version of his partner, snatched Satori’s sketchbook out of his friend’s hand and theatrically marched towards the garbage bin at the front of the classroom. Satori moved to intercept him, mute in distress, but was caught by the collar of his shirt and bodily dragged back towards the exit by the other boy.

“Keep the _yokai_ out!” 

They laughed as Satori stumbled backwards into the hallway and fell on his bottom. It hurt, but more prominent was the burn of tears, gathered, impatient to fall and streak down cheeks ablaze with humiliation. He furiously blinked them away, scrambling and tripping frantically to right himself.

He rushed forward again. He needed to save his sketchbook.

He was met with stiff arms and howls of glee, two pairs of eyes glittering in some cruel kind of mania, and was shoved back once more.

Just for an instant, an image burst forth in his mind’s eye. Satori thought of the story he wanted to write, to illustrate. It was a tale where the lead character had cherry red hair, brilliant ruby eyes, lanky limbs, and loved to dance. This hero was brave. This hero could not be stopped. This hero saved the people and things he loved from certain destruction.

What would that hero do now?

Satori got back up.

He tried to jostle, duck, and jab his way back into the room.

“Get off me, you freak!”

He held on tight to the door frame as a knee met his gut, fingers clutching valiantly at the wood structure.

“Hah! He’s crying! He’s crying!”

“Shut him out, quick!”

The sliding door slammed shut in his face before he could think to let go of the frame.

Satori screamed as his fingers were crushed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I! Fucking! Hurt! Myself! With! This! Chapter! 
> 
> I have so many angsty Haikyuu fics plotted out, this is the first of many. Please leave comments on your feelings of hurt, betrayal, and anger at me for doing this to precious, precious Tendou (he is my favorite character oops)!!
> 
> Hang on for the better days (and a soft follow up) to come. 
> 
> Find me on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/detokaki)


	2. Chapter 2

Satori had three broken fingers in total. His pointer and middle fingers on each hand took the brunt of the damage, and while the bone in his left middle finger hadn’t snapped, it had swelled enough to rival the broken fingers. Beneath twin casts, both extending to his wrist, an angry plum color blossomed along the digits.

The doctor had offered red casts, to match his hair. Satori opted for blue instead. 

While life was made awkward for the four weeks he had to wear the cumbersome pieces, he was still able to attend school, and collect notes from a sympathetic classmate. Volleyball and other physically-involved activities were off the table for the time being. So was drawing.

His parents had been beyond furious on his behalf. Due to his unforgiving work schedule, his father wasn’t able to make it to the meeting held in the principal’s office, but his mother was more than well-equipped to handle a confrontation with the other boys’ parents. Satori knew her wrath well, having been subject to it many times when he acted out, so it was a terrible surprise when she came home silent that evening, mouth taut and eyes rimmed a shimmering cherry.

He eavesdropped at his parents’ door that night.

“A week’s suspension. One! One week! This… it’s absurd! Those kids, they… do you know how hard you have to slam a door to actually break bone?”

“I know, honey. I’m going to talk to my brother, his wife’s firm may be able -”

“I, I don’t… I just want to know nothing like this will ever happen again. I mean… shit, I want to wring those little brats’ necks for what they did to our baby, but…”

It was so rare an occurrence that Satori bore witness to his mother’s tears, it took him a good minute to identify the muffled sobbing from beyond the wooden door. It was a bitter shock, as she was as much a pillar of strength as one of his own heroic designs, in pages tucked deeply once more into his schoolbag. It was there they stayed for the time being, silent yet pleading, bedeviling the young boy’s wounded soul. 

That night he had slunk back to his bedroom like a kicked puppy, weeping softly in his own sense of helplessness. _If I was stronger, mom wouldn’t be crying. Dad wouldn’t be worried. And I… I…_

Satori’s young mind, hand in hand with his summer heart, simply couldn’t piece together what went wrong. He didn’t know why it had happened, why he was the chosen subject of his peers’ ire, their unbidden wrath. He had tried to befriend them before all of this, just once, mesmerized by shining, raucous laughter across the community center’s gym, but found quickly that not all beautiful flora came without thorns. So, he withdrew his hands, and learned not to reach out with such blind infatuation.

Over time, Satori began to cull his expectations.

The week passed, and he found himself in the school office once more, stuck in a small room with the two boys who had hurt him, forced to acknowledge their rehearsed, lukewarm apologies. The guidance counselor lorded over the exchange with a self-congratulatory kind of air about her, hobbling and stooping between the children in her office like an orchestra conductor. It was a bitter melody that resulted.

“We’re really sorry, Tendou.”

“Y-yeah, we… we didn’t mean it.”

“We were just playing.”

Satori responded with silence, only staring at the pale pink fingertips that peeked over his bubblegum blue casts. Together, they made cotton candy. He felt just as sticky when the counselor shuffled over to him, resting a hand on his shoulder, surely intended as a reassurement, but all Satori felt was the pressure. “And what do we say back, Tendou-kun?”

“I accept your apology.”

Sickly sugar. It was barely a whisper, and the counselor only tried once more for a heartfelt show of grace from the boy under her sweaty palm. She had the sense to let him be after Satori grew tense in an attempt not to crumple in on himself.

\---

After the twin casts came off, Satori pulled his sketchbook out from his backpack. He inspected it warily as though the memories associated with it were tactile, fanged creatures that, upon sinking their teeth into him, would grin in wicked triumph. Its edges had weathered during its time confined to the bag, tucked unceremoniously behind his arithmetic and science books. 

He peeled apart the pages, seeking his most recent drawing. He was met by his hero, an explosive shock of crimson hair, jagged lightsword scribbled into a clenched fist, leaping marvelously into flight, soaring high above so much of mankind’s constructed frivolities. He existed as a nameless entity, a quiet, surreptitious kind of projection born from his creator’s own idealizations. He was bursting with hope, with freedom, burdened with the romanticized perception of reality that existed only in an adolescent mind. Satori blinked away hot fog.

No longer. _No longer._ He gripped the page by the same corner by which it had been dangled over the classroom garbage bin, and after a moment of disquiet, he tore it fully from the sketchbook and frantically crumpled it between newly healed fingers. His cheeks and eyes burned like desert sand as he huffed into his sleeve, heartsick with violent irrationality. 

_What do you want, freak? Creeper. Nobody wants you here. Keep the yokai out. Freak. Creeper. Yokai. Freak. Creeper. Yokai._

_Yokai._

Yokai _._

Satori hated that he was accustomed to the disdain leveled at him by certain classmates. Sometimes he would allow their conniptions and curses to stoke his own competitive fire, as such spirits did not reside naturally within his colorful, exuberant personality.

They were taught. 

So be it. He would take what challenges were thrust before him, would meet his tormentors as they saw him. Yokai. He would flatten their advances, their desperate rush for power over him. Brick by bitter brick, a wall billowed into existence, dwelling deep in his gut, disguised as a sharp wit, a comeback, a smirk in the face of caustic mockery. 

Satori tore out another page. 

_Yokai._

The golden, effulgent light of the afternoon was the only witness to this dissolution of a childhood. 

\---

“You… really? This is what you want?”

“Mhmm.”

“Is this because of what happened?”

“N-no… I just…”

“Satori. Those kids are _bullies_. Everything they did and said to you… it was mean, and it was wrong, and nothing they said about your drawings was true. Don’t listen to them.”

“You’re my mom.”

“Yes, and I’m proud of you, Satori. So, so proud.”

“You have to say that…”

“Oh, baby, no… I _wish_ I could have as much talent in my whole body as you do your little pinkies! Or your belly button! Or nose!”

“Mom…”

“Or these two cute little ears, right here!”

“Mom! Stop it!”

“Oh… okay… okay, Satori.”

“It’s… my fingers hurt. It hurts to draw.”

It was a half-truth. Satori could make it halfway through the school day without noticing it, but sure enough, after a few hours of holding a pencil between his fingers, a faint, sour heat would begin to pull tautly on his knuckles. More than once, he found himself needing to halt his mid-class doodling to flex out his hands, thumbing heavily into the center of his palm outwards. The action caught the eye of his teacher often enough for him to grow embarrassed by it.

Sitting at the dining table, Satori had been sullenly perusing over a hearty dosage of math homework, when his mother approached him, soft and curious like a housecat. She asked him how he was feeling, now that the doctor had given him the go ahead for rigorous physical activity, stating his hands had healed up well enough for it. 

He responded with a request to withdraw from the weekend art class. 

\---

During a particularly fierce volleyball practice in his first year of middle school, Coach taught Satori how to wrap up his fingers using tape after spying one furtive wince too many.

“There ya go, that should help with any pain,” she thumped his shoulder amicably with the meat of her palm. He studied her handiwork, wiggling his digits curiously, adjusting to the sensation. “Now get back out there, but, Satori... you let me know if your fingers start hurtin’ again. Understood?”

He nodded and squawked out a quick thank you as he scurried back to the court. The wrappings had an immediate effect, lending a kind of durability that Satori sorely missed playing with. He bit back a grin, craving an opportunity to put his reinforced weaponry to the test. 

Coach did not know the reason why his hands cramped so quickly, why his tendons slipped and pinched so eagerly, and Satori had no intention of filling her in. 

\---

“Wahh! What is that?”

The exclamation caught him off guard, and Satori twisted around to face the voice, squatting protectively over a splattering of school books, notes, and loose leaf paper on the locker room floor. It was the aftermath of a clumsy moment, the result of gesturing too wildly during a grand tale, a step too haphazardly taken. When Satori had tripped backwards over a teammate’s schoolbag, set innocently on the ground, his own went flying, its contents spewing against a wall. Immediately, he had stooped to pick up the mess.

He was not quick enough, and his companion, previously enraptured with their conversation, had kneeled down to assist in his harried cleanup effort.

A prickly bite of wariness shot up his neck, unbidden yet painfully familiar. He looked into the face of his kohai, expecting to see some glint of mockery or scorn in his eyes, but was greeted only with a pure curiosity. Goshiki, as genuine a creature as they come, met Satori’s gaze, eyes blown in liquid candor, hands extended in an offer to help collect the scattered belongings. “Tendou-san, did you draw that?” 

_What is that supposed to be?_

Rigidity took him.

Despite his own self-disparaging attempts to tamp it down, his creative instinct hadn’t fully abandoned him. While he hadn’t owned a proper sketchbook in quite a few years, Satori’s fugitive illustrations lived out secret lives in the margins of notes, the backs of syllabi, and occasionally, when truly desperate, on his skin in cheap ballpoint ink. Just like him, they had evolved from smooth, romantic visions of the world into loose, incomplete bodies, all tremulous lines and hasty geometry. 

One such drawing had snuck free of it’s folder and sat atop a rowdy stack of loose paper, and it had caught Goshiki’s attention. Satori snatched it from the mess and shoved it into the open maw of his bag, his voice tight as he responded, “What, oh that? Yeah, that’s just… that’s nothing. Come on, little ace, we need to get changed out!”

_Yokai._

He could see out of the corner of his eye Goshiki’s thick brows as they furrowed in consideration. _Don’t you think too hard about it, Tsutomu-kun, you’ll hurt yourself,_ Satori mused good-naturedly, quietly attempting to corral his energy into a resemblance of himself that his teammate would recognize, not this broken person that froze like prey within talons. He donned a smarmy grin, and prepared to say something inflammatory as a distraction.

“Can I see it again?” 

Goshiki had his head cocked like a finch, face open, and heart on his sleeve. Satori could only drop his jaw, lips parting as his words escaped him. _No_ , hissed the part of his brain that demanded he closely guard this part of himself. _No, he’s just going to make fun of you._

He was saved from a verbal response by the arrival of a handful of chattering teammates, guffawing and stomping through the strange stillness that had settled over him and his kohai for a moment. Satori took the opportunity for all it was worth and shuffled the rest off his belongings into a sloppy pile with the intention to shove it all back where it belonged. Goshiki caught his arm just before he could do anything beyond gathering everything against his chest.

“Wait, don’t just throw all your stuff in there, you’re gonna smash it up!”

“Ohh, don’t you worry about that, Tsutomu. It’s just a doodle, nothing important.”

“It looked really cool!”

It was Oohira who stepped in before Satori could bristle any more. This elusive, defensive behavior was instinctual, warring internally with logic that reprimanded him for being so fickle. He knew in his heart that Goshiki would never be so unkind as to tease him about his hobbies. The boy was merely inquisitive, that was it. Oohira, endlessly gentle, always seemed to have an uncanny sense for the human spirit, internally measuring his teammate’s agitated state with just a glance. He settled a friendly hand on Satori’s shoulder. “Tendou, do you need a hand cleaning up?”

“Reon-san, Tendou-san’s an artist! Did you know?” Goshiki piped up before Satori even had the chance to shirk off the vice captain’s generosity. 

“Oh? What’d he draw? Anime fanart? Nudie stuff?” From across the room, tangled in his own uniform mid-change, Semi wasted no time in ruffling that which Oohira had just begun to soothe, yakking out a playful, “Let’s see it!”

“Semi-Semi... why don’t you just focus on getting your big head through your shirt?”

“ _Hah?_ You’ve got a lot of hot air to blow today, huh, Tendou!”

While he and Semi hurtled half-hearted curses and jabs back and forth, Satori didn’t notice when Goshiki snuck his hand into his backpack and slipped the crumpled paper out from its sanctuary, holding it up for Oohira to see.

“Look at this,” he whispered conspiratorially, and Oohira’s grip tightened on Satori’s shoulder infinitesimally. At these reactions, Satori felt his heart stop. He abandoned his banter with Semi, finding two sets of eyes regarding him anew, eyebrows slightly raised, jaws slack, their breath soft.

He knows better. _He knows better._ This, now, it isn’t like then, nothing like those cruel days with cruel children and cruel realities. Those in front of him now, they are _his_ people, his community. Almost three years they had spent together. Each held their own color, shape, and space in his heart, flowing together like a composition of insurmountable beauty. He had fought for this, this lifeline, this paradise. And yet...

 _Yokai._

Two pairs of eyes became three as Semi sauntered over to the group perched at the edge of the room. Satori could only blink, and blink again. Distantly, he realized they were talking to each other, passing the drawing between them. He wanted to reach out, to grab at their wrists, to stop them from looking.

Instead, he clutched at his own fingers, thumbing heavily down each digit as bitter ice rooted itself in his lungs. 

“Just stop. Just stop. Just stop. Please, just _stop_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wheeee sorry this took so long to update. I also opted to split this last chapter into two cause it got pretty lengthy. So, one more, folks!
> 
> Thank you Fran, Leo, and Kat for making sure I was using honorifics correctly :0!!!!
> 
> Find me on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/detokaki)  
> (art for this and other fics will be uploaded there!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Returning readers, please note the summary update and that some tags have been changed/added! (I hope you are happier for it hehehe)

From just outside the Shiratorizawa Volleyball Club locker room, Ushijima Wakatoshi could hear some kind of commotion ensue beyond the closed door. The intermittent squawks and wails were equally indiscernible. Such a ruckus reminded him of the time that Tendou had, to much indignation and horror, rediscovered last week’s sticky candies melted into the deep recesses of his schoolbag. The resulting shrieks had been audible from the teacher’s parking lot. 

When it happened, Wakatoshi had been only momentarily startled at the initial outburst, and quickly took it in stride as another element of Tendou’s loud existence. This behavior, after all, was hardly anything new to the captain. Over his three years in the Academy, he had been playfully accosted, jostled, and teased countless times by his friend, each encounter just as boisterous as the last. To his knowledge, Tendou’s spunk was near inexhaustible.

Wakatoshi paused to listen, hand lingering over the door handle, and thought to himself, _It’s strange that I do not hear his voice now._

Upon entering, he was greeted with the bewildering sight of every present team member crowded into the far corner of the room. The energy was frantic. On the outer fringe of the group, Shirabu had herded Goshiki against a wall, fussing sharply into his ear as the younger boy cowed and wrung his hands. Backs turned to the squabble, Semi and Hayato had their hands raised as though to subdue a wild creature, desperate nothings spilling out of their mouths. 

Whipping his head wordlessly between the two calamities, Soekawa looked as though he had lost comprehension of human socialization, maw flopping about awkwardly, posture tinted with worry. Wakatoshi could just make out Oohira’s broad back through the bodies of his uneasy teammates, the vice captain crouched down. His bass murmur was a vague, fluid hum, bleeding incoherently into the rest of the clamor. 

Though now tangible in front of him, the situation was no more explicit to him than when he was outside. Wakatoshi stepped forward, stiff with hesitation, catching Goshiki’s eye in the process. The younger boy flinched as though he had been struck.

“U-Ushijima-san! I… I didn’t mean to…”

At mention of his name, the commotion stopped, all eyes turning towards him in poorly-veiled apprehension. He blinked slowly, and wondered, _Why do they look at me like that?_ Then, acerbic as a needle, Wakatoshi heard a weak little sniffle leak from beyond the blockade of jittery teenagers, and like a dam breaking, the noise all flooded back at once.

“I can’t believe how _little_ tact you have, Goshiki! Zero brains!”

“I… h-he didn’t…! I would never…!”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s alright!”

“Dude, just _talk_ to us! What the hell happened?”

“Eita, you’re not helping.”

“None of this is, Reon! Look at him, he’s freaking the fuck out! 

_“Eita!”_

“What! What the hell am I supposed to do! I don’t know what’s going on, you don’t know, and now… how the fuck are we supposed to do anything when _he won’t talk to us?”_

“SHUT UP!”

For the second time in under a minute, the room grew eerily quiet, but this time Wakatoshi played no hand in it. He stepped further into the huddle, and promptly felt watery concern carve thickly into his heart upon seeing the source of the outburst. It was Tendou, crouched low and curled into himself; a gangly mess of elbows and knees and joints and slender fingers threaded tightly into red hair. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he whimpered. “Leave me alone.”

 _That is absurd,_ Wakatoshi thought to himself, mulling over his friend’s illogical, untrue statement in his mind. He had never seen the middle blocker take such a woeful, small form before others, recoiling beneath the presence of the team’s familial companionship like a beaten animal. Advancing slowly towards him, Wakatoshi stated, “You don’t look fine.”

Semi’s subsequent facepalm was so violent, the slap echoed around the room. 

Then, like the shattering of a vase, the door flew open and several first years ambled into the space and ruptured the stiffness that had settled over the group like a dour bedsheet. Shirabu backed off Goshiki, who, with one more terse glance towards the huddle of third years, gathered his gym bag and shuffled off to a corner to change into his practice uniform. Soekawa blinked dumbly until Hayato took him by the shoulders and steered him towards the newcomers, hissing into the second vice captain’s ear at a volume that Wakatoshi could just overhear, _“Intercept and distract, intercept and distract!”_

Only Wakatoshi, Semi, Oohira, and Tendou stayed put. “Well,” Semi huffed, ruffling through his own ashen locks with both hands, eyes squinching shut in a grimace, continuing in a quiet mutter, “Tendou… I don’t know why you… _er,_ what’s going on, but you know we’re here for you, right?”

The addressee nodded, face still tucked low into his arms.

“Okay, then. Glad you know.”

Semi tapped a single finger to the crown of Tendou’s head, pressing solidly into vivid, red hair before casually dropping his hand back by his hip. “Sorry I yelled. I just... got frustrated. But, now I need to get changed out, too, and I’ll probably end up joining the others in wrangling the first-years… so, you get some space, and Reon and Wakatoshi are still right here,” he said as he began to meander off, looking pointedly at each of his teammates. “Holler if you need me.” 

Noting that even more of the team had snuck in while the setter had been speaking, Wakatoshi watched as Semi assimilated himself into the surrounding conversations as though nothing odd had happened, as though Tendou wasn’t still sitting on the floor amongst his scattered belongings, as though there was nothing to see in the back corner, no one to bother. It worked. Only the occasional glance was sent toward the remaining three third years, but no comments were made.

“He’s an ass, but he knows how to be nice, sometimes.”

All things considered, Wakatoshi was surprised when it was Tendou who broke the silence with his observation. He hadn’t raised his head from his arms, but his body had relaxed considerably into an easy slouch. Voice muffled by his own limbs, he mumbled on, “He tries, anyways. An ass, but sweet. Sweet-ass. _Heh_... don’t tell him I said that.”

Oohira took the moment for all it was worth, placing a mellow hand on Tendou’s arm.

“Satori, would you let us help you clean up all this stuff?”

“Ah,” the redhead jerked his head up, raising his eyes for the first time since Wakatoshi had set foot into the room, “I… I’d rather do it myself… don’t worry about this. Any of it.” He unfolded his body and began to scrape at the academic wreckage that surrounded them, drawing in whatever was within his reach like he was trying to build a nest for himself. “You don’t have to stay.” 

“Do you… want us to go?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“... Yes.”

Wakatoshi watched as Oohira nodded once, slowly, as if he could understand the reasoning behind Tendou’s erratic behavior and stilted hesitations. Smoothly, as though not to kick through the brittle concession that had just been wrought, the vice captain stood up next to Wakatoshi, patting his shoulder with subtle intention.

The concept of subtlety, however, was quite abstract in Wakatoshi’s mind. 

Instead, he lowered himself into the spot that Oohira had just vacated, all implied direction and situational nuance completely bulldozed. “Oohira, once everyone is dressed, get them started on warmups. I will be here,” he commanded easily, though his gaze never left Tendou as he said the words. 

He was graceful enough to wait until the room cleared before continuing.

“You were not being honest.”

Tendou flinched, a thousand incomprehensible emotions flickering over his face within the span of a rabbit’s heartbeat before settling on something that, to any brief observation, would read as irritation. If Wakatoshi was the kind of person to succumb to whimsicalities, he may have laughed at the facade being presented to him, because whatever ferocity Tendou was trying to project, his eyes did not follow through. They flit around the floor, the papers, his feet, the ceiling, landing only briefly on Wakatoshi’s own, connecting for one tumultuous second before flicking away once more. It felt like whiplash, but it was enough.

“You’re afraid.”

Either a hiccup, a chuckle, a sob, or some strange mixture of all three was ripped like a weed from Tendou’s throat, roots and all. His head lolled back with the action, lips splitting into a contrived grin. Sliding his eyelids closed as though he were floating down a river, a moment away from drowning, yet startlingly acceptive of his fate, he sang, “I just get a little stressed sometimes.”

“Why are you afraid?”

“I just said I was _stressed_. There’s a difference, Wakatoshi.”

“You are not telling the truth. Again.”

“What do you _want_ from me?” Tendou snapped, his whole body coiled, white hot, ready to strike. “Do you want to hear me say, ‘I’m fucking scared of everyone?’ Do you want me to admit that I’m weak, that I’m an idiot for feeling like this?” He paused to gasp in a shuddering, wet breath. “Why are you even here? Is it to make me feel shitty, Wakatoshi-kun? ‘Cause it’s working, thanks. Now, move, ‘cause you’re kneeling on my stuff. _Please_.”

A month or so ago in his science class, Wakatoshi learned about the basics of astrophysics. It was not a subject that was particularly intriguing to him, though he kept up well enough to maintain decent grades. However, one aspect of the study in particular had stuck with him: the peculiarities and dangers of sustained life amongst the stars, and what would happen to the human body if exposed to the merciless vacuum of space.

Unless exhaled immediately, the oxygen in a person’s lungs would expand rapidly, ripping them apart from the inside.

Wakatoshi, for a moment, wondered if he had been launched into deep space, drifting naked and helpless as the very air inside him pierced obsidian daggers through his ribcage at Tendou’s words. Reason found him quickly, reminding him heavily of his place on earth by the gravity that now pulled on him with twice the usual fervor. His fingers grew numb with lament as he took in the scene that he had sown. 

Tendou - endlessly generous, effervescent, and open - now regarded Wakatoshi with a guarded air, pinning him down with eyes glistening in molten pain. _Never,_ he thought, choking on the thin air that passed through his lips. _I would never want you to think that about yourself._

He wanted to say these things out loud, to lend these words of comfort, but he did not know how, and feared their outcome. After all, he had never seen Tendou lash out like this. Instead, he held his breath and lifted his knees to free the papers beneath them, allowing for pale fingers to reach forward and snatch them away. Tendou’s motions were acted out with such abrupt vehemence that Wakatoshi almost missed the trembling of his hands.

As he so often did, the ace acted out of pure instinct, and reached down to catch Tendou’s wrist as it attempted to snake away with a notebook. With reverent ceremony, he clasped his free hand over top of the redhead’s knuckles, exhaling slowly as it quivered beneath his palm. Wakatoshi closed his eyes, head bowed, and pressed both of his hands around his friend’s, causing him to drop what he had been clutching. Both of their palms flattened and fingers stretched out straight, sensitive skin lay flush against each other. After a minute of this and some very pronounced silence, Tendou stopped shivering, and Wakatoshi slit open his eyes.

Tendou’s eyes were blown, his lips taught with apprehension. “Were you praying?” he whispered, cheeks shiny and tinted like summertime strawberries. Wakatoshi blinked, and thought very hard on how he was going to explain his actions. They were, all in all, a bit of a mystery to himself.

“No,” he began, lifting his head to look Tendou squarely on. He needed the other to understand the significance of these next few words, as aleatory as they were.

“No, Tendou, I was not praying. I wanted to show you…”

Wakatoshi took pause once more. His grade-school writing teacher would whack him with a ruler if she could see him now, struggling with even the most simple translation of emotion to speech. His heart knew what he longed to convey, but it existed within him as a conglomeration of shapeless color, as raw intuition, as happy memories and golden promises, as songs, stretches, and seasons, and as the electricity that shimmered like sharp aquamarine between them.

But Wakatoshi was not good with words.

“I wanted to show you that you are my best friend, and that I support you.” 

Tendou withdrew his hand, and Wakatoshi felt cold air take its place, swirling over his palms that only moments before had been touching the heat of pure starlight. Tendou huffed out a half-chuckle, wiping his face with his white Shiratorizawa jacket, wincing as it came away damp.

“Thanks, Wakatoshi, that… that actually means a lot.”

“I’m glad for it.”

Beginning once more to gather his spilled effects, Tendou warbled, “I’m… I’m sorry I snapped at you. I didn’t mean any of that. You don’t make me feel like shit, I promise. I was just… stressed.”

“You said that before, but-”

“I _am_ stressed. Among other things.”

Wakatoshi scooted back to accommodate Tendou’s long arm as he stretched out to scoop up the final book that had, ironically, fallen open to a page with a giant color print of the galaxy. “Why?” he wondered aloud.

“Wakatoshi, are you asking me why people get stressed?”

“No. I am asking why you are stressed.”

“You,” Tendou stood, flourishing his arms out in a mock performance of gleeful vigor, “are an excellent friend - and captain! Above and beyond service! But you really don’t need to worry about it.”

It was a facade. Wakatoshi felt that he was witnessing something sacred yet well-practiced, and it made his stomach clench uneasily. “Did someone do something to you?”

“No! No, no one here. I know Tsutomu-kun was getting bitched at, but he was innocent, really, and I should have stopped Kenjiro-kun, but…”

“But you were stressed.”

“Exactly.” 

Alone together, they both began to change out of their school uniform into their practice gear. Wakatoshi was ready before Tendou, but opted to wait for him as he began to wrap his fingers. His movements were delicate and precise as he spun the tape around one digit, and then the other.

“You said ‘no one here.’”

Tendou paused in his ministrations, absentmindedly wriggling the two fingers he had just completed wrapping. “What?” he asked, voice soft.

“No one here hurt you. Did someone else? Outside?”

Growing still, Tendou seemed to contemplate his work before offering an answer. “A long time ago, Wakatoshi-kun. It’s okay now.” he murmured, beginning to wrap his fingers on the opposite hand.

“Is it?”

“I don’t feel like playing twenty questions right now, Wakatoshi. Let’s just get to practice before Washijo-sensei has my head. You’ll be fine, of course, ‘cause you’re his favorite, ya know?”

“Okay, Tendou. I am sorry.”

Pointer and middle fingers on each hand wrapped to satisfaction, Tendou sighed, “Don’t be. I’ll… tell you one day.” The middle blocker then stood, stretched his back dramatically, bending like a stalk with its heavy bloom caught in the wind, and turned to lead the way out of the locker room. Wakatoshi, however, had his attention caught by a sheet of notebook paper that had been hiding under a bench, likely swept up by the mad dash that Oohira had led to the court. Curious, he picked it up.

There was no name, no date, no writing of any kind to speak of that could identify the owner, only lithe shapes, jagged shadows, and chapped pencil strokes, all wreathed together to birth the form of a leaping man, torso and arm vaulted in a wicked arc, legs curled up far enough to nearly complete the circle. The piece leapt to life in Wakatoshi’s hands, who steeled himself in a desperate attempt to disguise the fact that it stripped him of breath and armor in one go, leaving him exposed. 

It was a handsome rendition of a volleyball spiker, his form succulent and fluid. The figure’s arm, outstretched to meet an invisible ball, sprouted familiarly from his left side. 

_This is…_

Wakatoshi raised his gaze to Tendou, who had frozen as though he were in the crosshairs of a hunter, his face a hot flush and pupils blown with weary dread. 

“Tendou, is this yours?”

All at once, the color drained from his skin and his mouth stretched in a taut grimace. Wakatoshi, never one for obliging himself to fill an awkward silence with his own thoughts, felt that they were on the precipice of some hostile place, one that Wakatoshi had only just been acquainted with. He was in no rush to taunt gravity after just pulling Tendou from the edge merely minutes before, so he spoke the first honest thing that popped into his mind.

“It is beautiful.” 

Backed into the doorframe that separated them from the rest of the world, Tendou’s whole chest rose and fell with his breath, drawn heavily through flaring nostrils. He remained aphasic, eyelids fluttering, hesitant to commit to a full blink, as though the moment he did, Wakatoshi would strike out at him. _He is stuck,_ Wakatoshi realized. _He is waiting._

For what, the ace hadn’t an inkling, and he guessed that Tendou was as equally lost as he was in that moment. The air fizzled with a peachy, anticipative energy, and Wakatoshi took a slow, steady step towards him. “It is so beautiful,” he repeated, his tone even and earnest. “May I have it?”

A single tear glittered down Tendou’s cheek, rich again with blush, catching on the corner of his lips, where for a moment, it twinkled like a shooting star before disappearing into his mouth. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, then spoke in a faltering voice, “We should get going.” 

Wakatoshi did not know it was possible to envy salt water.

\---

Practice started off decidedly funky that afternoon. Wakatoshi made a mental note to thank Oohira, as slinking by Washijo-sensei earned them only an admonishing stink-eye, likely the result of a quick explanation by the vice-captain on his teammates’ behalf. Wakatoshi led Tendou, hand reassuringly placed on his shoulder, to join the rest of the crew for the final warmups before they began drilling in earnest.

When the team split into two, half donning blue mesh jerseys, they ended up on opposite sides of the net. Neither of them held back, though the same couldn’t be said for a certain kohai. 

_“Tsutomu!”_ Washijo-sensei screeched when the boy fumbled an easy receive. “Where the hell are you today, in la-la land? Get your head out of your ass and back on the court!” 

“Yes sir!”

Wakatoshi didn’t need to hear the ensuing sniffle, didn’t need to see Goshiki’s hunched shoulders to know that he was crumbling in on himself. Several of the third-years shifted uncomfortably, having been privy to his scolding in the locker room. Shirabu twisted his lips into a pout and glared blisters into the hardwood floor, guilt hewn into his features. The team’s dynamic was compromised. Wakatoshi looked to his sensei, who reacted with only mild outrage when he signaled for a time-out request.

“Everyone, get some water, catch your breath, and figure your shit out. I’m going to the bathroom, and by the time I get back, you all had better be ready to focus, or _everyone_ stays late tonight hitting serves!” he roared, hobbling towards the restrooms, leaving the winded group in the hands of the assistant, who merely sighed behind his clipboard. 

“Goshiki. Tendou. I need to speak to you,” Wakatoshi called out to his teammates, understanding that the time he had to mend this rift was short. Therefore, it was necessary to start with the most painful fracture. Thankfully the rest of the team were quick to scramble for the benches, grasping desperately for towels and water bottles, because by the time Goshiki had crossed the net, he was full on sobbing. 

Tendou followed shortly, wasting no time in rubbing small circles into the boy’s back as he whimpered apology after apology, directed equally between Wakatoshi, the entire team, and Tendou. 

“Tsutomu-kun.”

“... Tendou-san, I’m so, s- so sorry for not listening to you, a-and… and… I- I… now I’m messing up everything, Ushijima-san, I’m so sorry I’m - _hic_ \- letting you down…” 

“Tsutoooomu-kun.”

“I never meant to be so… disrespectful, and inconsiderate of - _hic_ \- how you felt… and, I just - I just feel so awful, ‘cause I… I - _hic -_ made you freak out, and I didn’t _listen_ …”

Admittedly, Wakatoshi was startled when Tendou threw himself bodily at his crying teammate. He wrapped him in a tight embrace, and the physicality of it all reminded Wakatoshi a bit of the nature shows he watched as a child. He remembered one episode in particular where a young python struck and coiled itself around its prey, though the event before him was distinctly less malevolent. “ _Goshiki Tsutomu!_ Little ace! Shut up, or I’m gonna start crying again!” 

Goshiki did as he was instructed, his hiccups muffled into Tendou’s jersey as the third-year pressed his forehead to his own shoulder. Words spilled from him like blood from a wound, enveloping the trio in organic warmth.

“Tsutomu-kun, listen to me, you didn’t do anything wrong, okay? Do you understand? I’m gonna fuss at Kenjiro-kun later, don’tcha worry, but everything is okay now. Don’t worry. _Don’t worry_. I… I freaked out cause I get anxious when people… look at my drawings, and, I- I know, it’s silly, but I probably should have mentioned that I can get that way at times. So, it’s not your fault, you’re just a curious little cat!”

“Why?” Goshiki mewled into Tendou’s jersey. “You’re such a good artist, Tendou-san.”

Tendou peered over raven hair to meet Wakatoshi’s gaze, the tips of his ears pinkening by the second. “You really think so, kid?”

Wakatoshi knew the question was addressed to their kohai, but as he stared back into Tendou’s ruby eyes, he couldn’t help but nod his head in kind assent. Goshiki stuttered out something similarly affirmative, but Wakatoshi couldn’t be bothered to listen over the steady purl of his own heartbeat as it drowned out all other noise.

 _How long has he lived with such doubt in himself?_ He pondered, considering the person before him. 

Tendou Satori, who, fresh out of his very own breakdown, sought out those who splintered easily and doused them in affection, filling their self-inflicted crevasses with radiant hope. Tendou Satori, who so often would flit between his teammates, teasing, pushing buttons, and generally orchestrating the group synergy, drawing them all closer and closer together. Tendou Satori, who banked on wild caprice while blocking opponents, still managed to exist solidly in his friends’ lives, dependable as the sunrise each morning. 

Tendou Satori, who created so freely, could somehow bend lines and shadows into something so captivating it rendered his own best friend dumbstruck. Wakatoshi would be the first to admit he was offish and somewhat uncultured when it came to the world of art, but he knew how to listen to his intuition, and his intuition screamed that Tendou was something entirely special. After Tendou’s earlier display of uncertainty in his own abilities, Wakatoshi vowed to prove to him that his very existence was precious and worthy of celebration.

But Wakatoshi was not good with words.

A whistle split shrilly into his thoughts, heralding the return of Washijo-sensei and the remainder of daily practice. Stepping away from the protective position he had unwittingly taken between the rest of his team and the two reconciling friends, Wakatoshi catches the tail end of their conversation. Unlike a few minutes prior, it is interspersed with giggles instead of hiccups and sobs.

“Oh, I… I snotted a bit on your shirt.”

“Bah! It’s no biggie, but I wouldn’t say no to you fetching your senpai a towel to wipe it off…”

“Right! I’ll go grab one quick!”

“You better run little ace, or Washijo-sensei’s gonna get ya!”

“ _Satori!_ Get back on your side of the net, or I’ll have you running laps ‘til midnight!”

“Hurry Tsutomu-kun, my whole life depends on you now!”

Towel in hand, Goshiki bolted like a deer back to Tendou, who pranced from one foot to the other, eager to flee before Washijo-sensei’s threats manifested into reality. It was a clumsy, harried exchange in which he almost dropped the towel to the floor, but still managed to eke a double high-five from a beaming Goshiki before Sensei could open his mouth.

Wakatoshi watched him streak under the net, whipping Shirabu with the towel as he dashed past him, nimbly dodging a retributory kick. He accosted Semi with a noogie, laughing with Oohira as the setter spat curses at his back. One by one, he intercepted each of his teammates, both physically and emotionally, guiding them to a simple reset, allowing the strained, heavy cloud that had been lingering since the locker room debacle to dissipate into nothing.

Tendou was dazzling to watch.

The whistle blew again, and it was all serious business once more. When Wakatoshi leapt up, left arm arcing like a bow pulled taut, a millisecond away from a violent spike, a flash of red caught his eye. He crashed through Tendou’s block, noting absently that his form was impeccable.

Tendou shook out his right hand, undoubtedly smarting something fierce where the ball had struck. Despite Wakatoshi breaking through, the middle blocker’s eyes were alight with familiar wildfire. “One day I’ll do it,” he panted, “One day I’ll get you, Ushiwaka.”

Wakatoshi felt the tug of a smile pull shyly at the corner of his mouth. “I look forward to it, Tendou.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE! Waka-POV!!!! Can you believe I intended for this chapter to remain platonic? Then BOOM, it accidentally became something of a love letter. WHOOPS...
> 
> Speaking of which, this is just the first installment in an UshiTen series, so if you enjoyed this first part, please keep an eye out for the next one! <3
> 
> (The kind of synesthesia that Ushi has is very mild, but we will be seeing more of it in future works. I am writing the condition as I experience it, and while it's not central to the plot, it does add a subtle pizazz. )
> 
> Thank you to CC for beta’ing and T-Da for your lovely notes!!!!
> 
> Find me on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/detokaki)(art for this and other fics will be uploaded there!)


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